Saturday, August 15, 2015


saturday morning is lighting
the tips of the evergreens,
the wind comes in gusts through the window -
tousling my hair as my grandfather did.

i’ve just spent an hour reading of war
in chechnya. my coffee has grown cold,
but not so cold as their dead. curled up
in my worn reading chair,
there is still sleep lingering in my bones,
which is to say life.

my cold coffee now bitter - like the character
counting gunshot wounds instead of cadavers
as if each shot were a separate death,
as if in the tallying he will understand,
as if in the reading, will i.

another gust flips the pages
to where i left off, so i begin
again to count with him,
hoping to find the sentence
where ends the tallying.

i wake to find the sun high.
i have slept again. I dump
my cold coffee down the sink,
while he continues his bitter count

without me turning even a page.


Wednesday, February 4, 2015


let us wonder at

the pondering
the last act
the final door

all that leads there
is not true nor
the stained glass
layered with dust

let us find stones
and cast them
in the waters of John
and watch the ripples
spread and fade

let us watch the sun
rise from its palace

let us wonder
at dead children
life bleached from their hearts
their dear hearts
that beat so fast when born
but now just
cavities collapsing

and oceans

beating against shores

sounding their soft alarm

while dervish galaxies
whirl their endless stars

across the moonless sky